


Scars Beyond Counting

by mojo_da_jojo



Series: Join Me in Heaven, and Sorrow No More [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:32:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojo_da_jojo/pseuds/mojo_da_jojo
Summary: It isn't that she doesn't think she can trust her friends. She wouldn't call them friends if she couldn't trust them. But they all knew she made up her mind to kill Fen'harel. Some of them had tried to talk her out of it, and she'd defended her choice, knew it was the right thing to do - had known all along, even if she hadn't wanted to see.She'd meant to kill him, and had found herself unable to. And admitting that sort of weakness, to even one of her friends, meant giving voice to a weakness that the Inquisitor absolutely could not have. Even privately.So, her solution was to simply not be the Inquisitor anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't need to read it," Leliana says. "I know you well enough by now. This is a letter of resignation."
> 
> Sometimes having a spymaster as a close friend is incredibly trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, I seemed to have started a much larger project than I intended. -shrugs- Oh well.
> 
> Thanks once again to my lovely Trish for being my proofreader, cheerleader, and blatant enabler.

_You have walked beside me_  
_Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh._  
_You have stood with me when all others_  
_Have forsaken me._

_I have faced armies_  
_With You as my shield,_  
_And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing_  
_Can break me except Your absence._

_-Trials 1:5-6_

"What exactly is this?" Leliana demands, brandishing an envelope in her hand.

Lavellan sighs and looks up from her desk, laying her quill aside. The envelope's seal - the Inquisitor's seal - hasn't even been broken. "It's a letter, Leliana. You're supposed to read them. Otherwise it quite defeats the purpose of sending them, if you storm into people's offices asking what they say."

"I don't need to read it," Leliana says. "I know you well enough by now. This is a letter of resignation."

Sometimes having a spymaster as a close friend is incredibly trying.

"And if I open it, I will have officially received it," Leliana continues, "which as you can see, I have not done."

"Well, that's not childish at all," Lavellan mutters. 

Leliana scowls at her. "What is childish is writing a letter to avoid having to actually talk about your problems with your advisors. With your _friends._ "

Alright, that one stings a bit. "I thought it the proper channel for these things to go through," Lavellan tells her irritably. "I don't exactly have Josephine to write these things for me anymore."

"Oh yes, that conversation would have gone well," Leliana says. "'Excuse me, Josie, but would you mind terribly composing a letter of resignation for me? Only please let's not discuss why.' 'Why certainly, Inquisitor, sounds perfectly reasonable, let me just get my stationery kit.'" Her imitation of Josephine's accent is frighteningly accurate.

"It _says_ why in the letter," Lavellan points out. "Which you haven't read."

"And I'm sure it lists whatever the official reason is supposed to be, which you and I both know will be nonsense," says Leliana.

Lavellan throws her hand up in frustration. "What is the point of having a conversation with you when you already know everything it's about?!"

"The point, _Inquisitor_ ," says Leliana, "is that I thought you knew you could trust me with the truth, regardless of the official nonsense Cassandra and I will have to spout to the public. So will you at least give me the benefit of the doubt, and tell me what's really on your mind?"

Lavellan hesitates.

She hasn't told anyone the details of the final encounter at Skyhold. Not Dorian, or Cullen, or Sera, who had actually been there. Not Cassandra, who is not only her friend and superior but also one of the most powerful people in Thedas.

It's not that she's lied about it, exactly. She just sort of... let people draw whatever conclusions they wanted. Her official report to Cassandra says that Abelas' disruption of the ritual left Fen'harel unconscious, and as Inquisitor she decided to bring him in for trial, go through the appropriate authorities and all that.

Which is _technically_ true.

It isn't that she doesn't think she can trust her friends. She wouldn't call them friends if she couldn't trust them. But they all knew she made up her mind to kill Fen'harel. Some of them had tried to talk her out of it, and she'd defended her choice, knew it was the right thing to do - had known all along, even if she hadn't wanted to see.

She'd _meant_ to kill him, and had found herself unable to. And admitting that sort of weakness, to even one of her friends, meant giving voice to a weakness that the Inquisitor absolutely could not have. Even privately.

So, her solution was to simply not be the Inquisitor anymore.

Leliana's right; her resignation letter lists the only politically-sound reason Lavellan could come up with. She'd written that her own purpose after Corypheus' defeat had been turned towards hunting down the dangerous heretic Fen'harel, and that with that goal complete, there was simply no reason for her to carry on as Inquisitor.

She'd known her friends would see that logic for the nonsense it was, but still.

"I can't talk about it," Lavellan admits. "Not yet, Leliana. Please don't ask me to."

Leliana's face softens immediately. "You haven't spoken of the confrontation with Solas."

Lavellan tries not to flinch at his name. Tries very hard. "No, I haven't."

"I'm sorry," Leliana says quietly. "I can't even imagine what you must be going through. I think we often forget that you may be the Inquisitor, but you aren't a machine."

"I sometimes forget myself," she admits.

"But Inquisitor or not, you've never been particularly good at distancing your head from your heart," Leliana continues.

That's... true, even if hurts. Something must show on her face, because Leliana shakes her head. "I don't mean that as a criticism," she says. "It's served you well, these many years as the Inquisitor. You've never needed to distance your head from your heart, because your heart is good. It's never wanted for anything your head didn't agree with."

"Until recently," Lavellan says.

"Until recently," Leliana agrees.

Lavellan gets up from her desk and crosses to the window. Her office is in one of the Grand Cathedral's many spires, the whole of Val Royeaux visible from her window. She'd once spoken with Hawke about views from windows and towers, and how all each of them could see was the sheer amount of people counting on them. 

Fen'harel had nearly slaughtered the entire world, and she still couldn't kill him. His fate could still impact every living person, and she still doesn't know what she wants that fate to be.

"I don't want to talk about Skyhold," she says finally. "Perhaps someday, I'll tell you, but I - can't, yet. But I - I've had a week to think about it, since we got back, and his trial is tomorrow, and I still don't know what's right, and you and I both know how - my emotions, my heart, they are what rule me. And if I'm emotionally compromised, then I am unfit to make any sort of decision, let alone one that could potentially decide the fate of all Thedas. So I'm resigning, Leliana, effective immediately, and that's not negotiable. I am removing myself from the equation. And if you and Cassandra want a new Inquisitor, or just want to let the Inquisition retire, then that's up to you. I can't make those decisions any more. I don't _want_ to."

She takes a deep breath. "I'm so tired," she says.

Leliana listens to the entire tirade without interrupting, and lets a few moments pass when it's over. "I understand," she says quietly. "As your friend, I understand."

She sighs. "As the Divine's Right Hand, well, I suppose I have a lot of work to do, then," she continues. "I'll tell Cassandra, if you'd like."

"I'd appreciate that," Lavellan says. "I've seen what happens to people on the receiving end of Cassandra's ire. I'd rather not experience it in person."

"She won't be angry," Leliana tells her. "Well, perhaps at first, but she never stays angry for long. She and Varric get on passably well, these days."

"Comforting," Lavellan says dryly.

"The Exalted Council may still want your opinion on Solas' judgment," Leliana adds. "What shall I tell them?"

Lavellan had figured as much. "They are the ones who must continue to rule those that he wronged," she says, "and therefore they are the ones who must decide his fate."

"Reasonable enough, I suppose," Leliana says. "I'll keep it quiet, for now. We'll announce your resignation official after the trial. Is that an acceptable compromise?"

"As long as I don't have to sit the Council myself," Lavellan tells her.

"Agreed," Leliana says.

Lavellan expects that to be the end of the discussion, until Leliana asks, "Have you been to see him?"

Lavellan doesn't ask who she means. "No."

"Are you going to?"

"I told myself I wouldn't," Lavellan answers. "But I don't know. It might not be a mercy for either of us."

"That's true enough," Leliana says, and turns to leave. "Oh," she says. "I meant to tell you, Dorian was looking for you. Apparently a Tevinter magister stalking through the halls of the Grand Cathedral was causing a bit of a fuss, and he wanted you to meet him in the Summer Bazaar. It might be a valuable distraction, if you're interested."

"Distraction _is_ one of the things Dorian does best," Lavellan agrees. "I'll go see him."

Leliana takes her leave, and Lavellan sets about making herself presentable enough for the snooty standards of the Orlesian public.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com/) I'm nice!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "These Southerners wouldn't know a proper spa if it danced naked in front of them on Satinalia," Dorian tells her. "No, I thought we'd find ourselves a proper dive of a pub, get spectacularly drunk, and forget our problems for a night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cranking out a chapter a day now, apparently. Don't worry, it won't last.
> 
> This chapter contains alcohol usage as a coping mechanism, violence, (very) brief mention of sex, and discussion of past (failed) relationships.

The sun is beginning to slip beneath the rooftops of Val Royeaux by the time Lavellan makes it to the Summer Bazaar. A wave of excited whispers and pointed fingers follows her; she ignores them. Even after five years of her roaming the city as she pleases, it seems the novelty of spotting the Inquisitor in public has not worn off.

She's wearing her nondescript daily-wear prosthetic, so at least her missing left arm isn't too noticeable, but her lack of vallaslin identify her as easily as if she'd never lost them in the first place. 

If Lavellan is turning heads, though, it is nothing compared to the crowd Dorian is attracting.

He sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the shoppers in their Orlesian frills and ruffles. Even if his dark complexion and ridiculous glittery Tevinter robes hadn't immediately marked him as a foreigner, the enormous bejeweled staff at his back would. Mages openly carrying staves have become less rare, these days, but Dorian's has a distinctly Tevinter 'there's-no-kill-like-overkill' design to it. Lavellan is also relatively sure he doesn't have the required license to carry a staff in Orlais. Not that anyone would question him, of course. The faces of her former inner circle are nearly as well-known as her own.

"Compensating for something, are we?" Lavellan asks, gesturing to the staff in question as she approaches.

"Phallic jokes," Dorian exclaims, smirking. "My favorite. I assure you, _amica_ , they are in fact a matched set." He scratches idly at the growth of scruff on his jaw. It's not really a proper beard, like Thom's had been. It's trimmed very close to Dorian's skin and shaped into odd curliques that she's sure must take an obscene amount of time each day to maintain.

"Itchy?" Lavellan guesses.

"I'm thinking of shaving it," Dorian admits. "They're all the rage in Minrathous at present, but it's dreadfully uncomfortable."

"Oh, don't," she begs, "it's fabulous. Besides, Cullen seems awfully fond of it."

Dorian's barking laughter rings out across the plaza, startling a few passersby. "I'd put a lot more stock in our dear Cullen's taste if I believed for one second he was interested in men. A shame, really, he's quite pretty as far as these pink and yellow Fereldans go."

"He's mentioned it no less than three times in the past week," Lavellan informs him. "'Have you _seen_ Dorian's incredible facial hair, Inquisitor?' 'It's looks so _soft_ , do you suppose he conditions it like his hair?' 'Do you think he shaves it himself, or has servants to do it for him?'"

"Perhaps he's simply jealous he can't grow a proper one himself," Dorian points out. "He's awfully patchy."

"True," she agrees. "Now, I assume you had a reason for inviting me out here? And please don't say spa day, I still haven't recovered from Vivienne's cheese wheels."

"These Southerners wouldn't know a proper spa if it danced naked in front of them on Satinalia," Dorian tells her. "No, I thought we'd find ourselves a proper dive of a pub, get _spectacularly_ drunk, and forget our problems for a night."

"That... actually sounds lovely," she admits. "I suppose everyone knows my business, but what is it _you're_ trying to forget?"

Dorian _tsk_ s at her. "Ah ah, my dear, you'll have to get me drunk first. Shall we?"

-

As it turns out, Dorian's idea of a 'proper dive' lands them in Val Royeaux's red lantern district.

"Dorian," she hisses as he all but drags her into one of the more well-lit buildings on the block. "I can't be seen in a _brothel_ , I'm the Inquisitor!"

"Nonsense," he tells her, "even the Inquisitor needs a day off, people know that. And besides," he continues, lowering his voice, "I thought you were retiring?"

"That's beside the point," Lavellan says.

"There's no need to partake," Dorian says, "but I have it on good authority that people really do come to this particular establishment for the whiskey. You do drink whiskey, don't you?"

"Of course I drink whiskey," she says as the host whisks them towards a fairly secluded table, drinks already set up for them. "And what sort of name is the Ballroom, anyway?"

"I suppose it's one of those clever names meant to mislead," Dorian replies. "'Sorry I'm late, darling, I got caught up at the Marketplace,' which might be true, only the Marketplace in question is full of scantily-clad women and strapping young lads in lacy scarves."

Lavellan can feel the telltale heat of a blush flooding her face and ears. She hastily gulps from her drink.

"No need to be embarrassed," he goes on, "it's a perfectly natural human function. Er - or, elven function, I suppose." He peers at her face. "You're not a virgin, are you? I mean, I suspect you'd have told me, if you were, only I wasn't sure you and Solas ever -"

"I'm not a virgin," she interrupts, "and I thought we were meant to be forgetting our problems, not dredging them back up?"

Dorian raises his glass in salute. "Quite right, my apologies. Shall we?"

They stick to safer topics, as they drink - Dorian regales her with tales of he and Maevaris' exploits with the Lucerni, which are far better told in person than over the sending crystals he'd had crafted for them. Lavellan repays him with her own stories of her friends in Val Royeaux, complete with passable imitations of Cassandra and Leliana's accents, though her impression of Sera's speech cadence needs some work. 

"Honestly, though, I can't believe you let _Sera_ cut your hair," Dorian said. "With a _knife_."

"I was having a bad week," Lavellan protests, "and do you _know_ how hard it is to braid long hair with _only one hand_?"

A few of the brothel's workers wander towards their table looking for patronage, but Dorian waves them off graciously. As Lavellan gets more tipsy and less self-conscious, she starts paying more attention to their surroundings; the name 'the Ballroom' makes a whole lot more sense to her now that she's noticed the entire staff seems to be male.

She says as much to Dorian, who finds it hilarious that it took her this long to notice.

It certainly explains the odd looks she's getting.

"I assume you've heard what the locals are calling you these days?" Dorian asks. "The 'Missing Hand of the Divine?'"

Lavellan groans. "I should have known that joke would catch on," she says. "Cassa - er, Divine Victoria - asked me to be her Left Hand, which I of course turned down, and I _may_ have been overheard telling Ambassador Briala that you couldn't have a proper Left Hand without. Well. A left hand."

Their talk turns to politics, of course, at the mention of Briala. Lavellan doesn't particularly trust the ambassador - no one in their right minds would, according to Leliana - but she _is_ the only other elf in Orlais to hold any sort of rank whatsoever, which at least gives them one thing in common. Briala's efforts to uplift the city elves of Orlais aren't going all that well, but Lavellan helps her where she can - and where she feels safe in doing so. She hasn't quite forgotten the legion of spies and assassins Briala apparently commands.

"Do you know," she says, after many, many more drinks, "I don't think I've been this drunk since that weird Qunari liquor Bull had me drinking after that first dragon we killed."

Dorian chokes on his own drink but says nothing, and busies himself flagging down their server for more whiskey.

It takes her a moment to piece it together with her drink-addled mind, but once Lavellan thinks about it, she realizes Dorian hasn't once mentioned the Iron Bull since they got here. In fact, even via sending crystal, she hasn't heard him talk about his Tal-Vashoth lover in months.

"Oh," she says, a bit stupidly. "Dorian, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Dorian tells her, "you didn't know." He sighs, slides a little lower in his chair. "I meant to tell you, only there never seemed to be a good time, and then, well. We got distracted by Skyhold."

"What happened?" she asks.

"Nothing specific, really," Dorian says. "Time, I suppose. Distance."

"Did you have a fight?"

"Not all at once," he answers, and she can tell he's trying to sound less upset than he really is. "It got a bit - trying, sneaking off to the border, trysts in the middle of the night. We'd been talking about... making it public, maybe, or at least not hiding anymore. Only it's one thing to declare yourself homosexual in front of the entire Magisterium, and quite another to openly court a mercenary Tal-Vashoth."

"Dorian," Lavellan says quietly, somewhat at a loss for words.

"It was... amicable, at least," Dorian goes on. "Bull always had... Bull always _has_ a knack for knowing what people want. He knew I wanted more than just a courtship, I wanted - I want more. Someone who can stand openly at my side. A partner. A husband. He knew we could never be that. So I think he broke it off to spare both of us the pain of trying to be something we weren't."

"I'm so sorry," Lavellan says again. "How long ago was that?"

Dorian hesitates. "About... about a year ago," he says. "I meant to tell you," he adds hastily.

"It's alright," Lavellan assures him, "I'm not angry."

"And I thought maybe he'd told you himself," Dorian continues.

She shakes her head. "Bull and I don't talk very often, these days. He's busy with the Chargers, I suppose. Krem comes round every now and then, to see Maryden, I think, and usually he catches me up."

"I always did like Krem," Dorian says. "The only other good man to come out of Tevinter, I suppose."

"Have you thought about seeing someone else?" Lavellan asks.

"Thought about it? Yes," Dorian answers. "Acted on it? No. Relationships between men back home, they're... different, than in the South. Especially among the upper echelons. It's quite alright to fuck your slaves, or even to fuck men among your class, but anything more is... just not done. Magisters are meant to marry and breed, and pass on their magical traits. It's one of the reasons my father never -"

He cuts himself off. "This conversation has gotten dreadfully morose. Suffice to say, I'm not really looking for any sort of relationship with anyone back home. What about you?"

"Er," Lavellan says.

"I mean, you've won," Dorian says. "It's over, isn't it? After nearly five years - or seven, really, if you count those two between where we didn't know if... anyway, all I mean is that, and don't take this the wrong way, but surely it's time to move on? Or at least try to."

"It's not that I haven't _tried_ ," she says. "For starters, there aren't a whole lot of suitable prospects for an elf in power in Val Royeaux."

"As if you've ever cared what seems 'suitable' for a woman in your position," Dorian remind her.

"No," she agrees. "There've been a few... interested parties, if you want to call them that. Ser Barris tried to court me, and we went on a few dates, but it was early on, and I wasn't really in the proper mindset... I wasn't very fair to him, in the end."

"He didn't give you any trouble?" Dorian asks, a little threateningly.

"No, no," she assures him. "If anything, I gave him more trouble than he deserved. He took it well enough, he's a good man."

"No one else?"

"One of Sera's people," Lavellan says. "A Red Jenny, from the Free Marches. We only met a few times, and it was... nice, I suppose, but nothing really came of it. I probably shouldn't tell you her name, though. The Jennies take their stuff seriously."

"I _knew_ you weren't a virgin," Dorian says smugly.

She smacks him. "I wasn't a virgin when I _met_ you, you arse," she insists. "Not that it's any of your business!"

"Oh come now, you know every excruciating detail of _my_ sex life," he reminds her, which is true. She'd strongly considered trying to bleach her brain after some of the conversations she'd overheard on the road between him and the Iron Bull. He raises his glass. "To failed relationships and sad attempts at closure?"

"I'll drink to that," she agrees, and clinks their glasses together.

She raises the glass to her lips, but before she can knock it back, movement catches the corner of her eye; without thinking, she jerks back, and a knife _thud_ s into the wall where her head had just been.

"What in -" Dorian begins, but she doesn't hear him finish the sentence before she's on her feet, chasing immediately after the patron she'd seen throw the knife.

Her steps are wobbly, but she _is_ , after all, the Inquisitor. She catches the attacker right as they're slipping out the door, executing a sloppy but still functional one-armed takedown that has both of them rolling on the dirty Orlesian cobblestones.

"Fasta vass," she hears Dorian curse, and then her attacker is floating in the air, immobilized by Dorian's purplish, smoky magic.

Lavellan takes a good look at the would-be assassin's face - he's an elf, younger than her - barely even a man, by Dalish standards - and he bears no vallaslin.

She supposes that could mean he's a city-born elf, but - 

"Fen'harel ma halam," he spits, and, well, that settles that.

"Let's bring him in," Lavellan says, and the boy's eyes roll in his head as Dorian puts him magically to sleep. "Leliana will want to know. And careful, there may be more -"

No sooner has she said the words than a stinging line of fire blooms across her face; she grabs Dorian by the elbow and hauls him bodily into the cover of a nearby alley. 

Dorian's barrier slides around both of them like warm silk. She risks poking her head round the corner; there's one archer on the balcony of the brothel they'd just left, and a pair of hooded figures sprinting towards the alley.

Lavellan reaches for the only smoke bottle she'd seen fit to bring, cursing herself inwardly. "I'll get the archer, if you've got this," she says, and at Dorian's nod, cracks the bottle. 

It's been ages since she's used a stealth bottle, and she immediately regrets it when its smoke makes her eyes burn. In hindsight, perhaps adding smoke to already drink-blurry senses was not, in fact, the brightest idea, but she rounds the alley corner anyway, under the safety of cloaking fog.

Without Dagna's grappling hook, there's no hope of scaling the building one-handed. Instead, she dives back into the Ballroom, stumbling past its patrons as she finds the stairs.

She's not nearly as graceful drunk as she is sober, apparently.

Fortunately, in this case all she needs is to catch the archer off-guard, which she does, sinking her dagger into his exposed throat from behind. Her momentum carries them both off the balcony and crashing to the ground. Her stomach rolls and her wrist catches painfully beneath her.

She looks up in time to see one of Dorian's pair of assassins bearing down on her, but she can't quite disentangle herself from the archer in time -

and then a blade slices cleanly through his neck, blood spurting messily, and his body falls to the ground, Cullen breathing heavily behind him.

"Where in the Maker's name have you _been_ ," he demands, and Lavellan promptly vomits all over his shoes.

"Oh dear," is all she hears him say, before she blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on [tumblr!](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana hesitates. "I have an... idea, on how to proceed, but it requires your cooperation on a task I don't believe you'll like."
> 
> "Which is?" Lavellan says guardedly, though she already knows.
> 
> "I'd like you to speak with Solas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit on the longer side, but the all-knowing Trish said it didn't make sense to split it, so... here we are.

Lavellan's head is pounding before she's even properly awake.

She opens her eyes and immediately regrets it, closing them again under the onslaught of too-harsh sunlight. "Maker's _balls_ ," she groans.

"Oh, good," says Dorian from somewhere over to her right. His voice has no right to be so loud. Or cheerful. "And here I'd thought I'd have to suffer alone all day."

"Please," she whispers, "not so loud. My head."

"Unsurprising," Dorian says. "Do you remember last night at all?"

Lavellan thinks for a moment, sluggish. "Assassins," she says finally, daring to crack her eyes open, albeit narrowly.

"Oh yes," Dorian agrees.

"I puked on Cullen," Lavellan says.

"Oh yes," Dorian says, more gleefully this time. "You'll want to clean yourself up, _amica_ , I'm sure Leliana's already expecting you. Here." He waves a hand casually at her; she feels a rather unpleasant tug in her stomach, and the effects of her hangover simply evaporate.

"Oh," she says, surprised. "There's a spell for hangover cures?"

"There's a spell for everything," Dorian reminds her. "You've never seen me hungover, have you? Did you never wonder why?"

"I assumed you were just an alcoholic," Lavellan tells him, and sits up to examine herself. Her nose wrinkles at her own smell, and she stumbles groggily to her washbasin. "You said Leliana's waiting on me? Why?"

"I assume she's finished interrogating the elf boy we brought back with us," Dorian said. "Or rather, that Cullen brought back. You and I weren't in much state to be carrying anyone."

Lavellan groans again.

"Never fear," Dorian says wickedly, "I'm sure you made quite the imposing picture slung over the backside of Cullen's horse. Very fitting for an Inquisitor. Even a soon-to-be-retired one."

"I hate you," she says, resisting the urge to drown herself in her washbasin.

She manages to make herself at least somewhat presentable, and finds Leliana in her office.

The former spymaster doesn't even look up as she approaches. "Someone had quite the eventful night, or so I hear."

"Spare me the lecture," Lavellan says. "What have you got for me?"

To her surprise, Leliana doesn't lecture her at all. "Of the four elves who attacked you last night, only one survived," she reports. "His name is Junar, formerly a hunter of Clan Sabrae, and he joined the Dread Wolf's legion only last year. He was assigned to watch and recruit in the Free Marches, and was not at Skyhold when we attacked it last week."

"Why try to kill me now," Lavellan asks, "after the fact?"

"That, I am less clear on," Leliana concedes. "He admitted that the entire legion was under strict orders not to harm you, specifically, which he apparently disagreed with. Strongly. He seems rather... fanatical, if you like. He referred to you only as 'harellan,' which I'm told means - "

"Traitor," Lavellan says.

Leliana nods. "I believe he saw you as an obstacle to his new master's goals, though it's unclear what he was trying to achieve by killing you. He's refused to say anything more; my agents have reached something of an impasse in his interrogation." She hesitates. "I have an... idea, on how to proceed, but it requires your cooperation on a task I don't believe you'll like."

"Which is?" Lavellan says guardedly, though she already knows.

"I'd like you to speak with Solas," Leliana says.

"No," she says flatly.

"Hear me out," Leliana insists. "There's still so much we don't know, Inquisitor, and we cannot afford to remain ignorant. We have no idea what his ritual at Skyhold was meant to accomplish, or how. We don't know what his people may be planning without him, or even if they are still operational now that he's in our custody. This attack on you may be the work of a small group of radicals, or it may be the machinations of something much larger. We _must_ know these things if we are to accurately assess the threat he may still pose.

"Furthermore," she goes on, "he's said absolutely nothing since we brought him in last week. That isn't an exaggeration, Inquisitor. He hasn't spoken a word. We've no idea what we're dealing with, or how to even possibly begin sentencing him. The Exalted Council agreed to give me one more day to try to get information from him, and they've postponed his trial until tomorrow. But he isn't speaking."

"And no one's thought to torture him?" Lavellan says.

Leliana regards her impassively for a long time before she answers. "It was you who convinced me that torture and killing are not the tools of the Inquisition we built together," she says. "That you would even suggest such a thing worries me. Especially in regards to a man you love."

"Loved," Lavellan corrects.

"Even so," her friend says. "It's unworthy of you."

Lavellan's face heats. "I didn't mean -" She cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. Swallows. "You're right," she says finally. "My apologies."

Leliana nods. "I know this must be incredibly trying for you," she says, softer. "I know it must be one of the many reasons you don't wish to carry the mantle of Inquisitor any longer. And if that is what you want, you will absolutely have my support. But I would not ask you to speak to him if I had any other option. And I don't ask you as Inquisitor, but as the only agent I have suited to the task I need completed.

"And yes," Leliana sighs, "despite our ideals, the thought of torture had crossed my mind. But the man is millennia old, and torture is an unreliable tool at best. If I thought he was going to crack under pressure, I'd have already done it, ideals be damned."

"Hypocrite," Lavellan mutters.

Leliana ignores her. "Solas respects you," she says. "He admires you. He has said so himself. If he's going to talk at all, it's going to be to you."

She's really getting tired of Leliana being right all the time.

"Alright," she says finally. "I'll do it."

-

The Grand Cathedral's dungeon is eerily quiet.

A dampening field lingers over the entire wing, preventing anyone - not just prisoners, but guards and visitors as well - from using magic. The aura makes her hair stand on end. It reminds her of standing too close to Cassandra as she used her Seeker abilities, or catching the wrong end of a templar's shield in combat.

Though she hasn't fought templars in a long, long time.

The guards who are usually stationed down here have been temporarily dismissed at her own insistence; she doesn't want witnesses to whatever is about to happen. Cassandra and Leliana hadn't liked the idea, but Mythal's orb is safely locked away in Lavellan's own quarters, and Dorian and Cullen have agreed to guard it while she's away.

Without the orb, and with the anti-magic aura in place, Fen'harel poses no threat to her.

 _Solas_ , she corrects herself.

Lavellan is no fool, and she knows her own mind well enough to recognize her almost pathological obsession with his name. She'd known him as Solas for so long that acknowledging him as Fen'harel had seemed ridiculous, at first. 

He'd told her himself that the name hadn't been his idea; it had been a derogatory name hurled at him by the Evanuris, and he'd chosen to adopt it. She supposes to him, 'Fen'harel' must be a title akin to what 'Inquisitor' is for her - a title that sometimes applies, and sometimes doesn't, and somehow defines her without really feeling like it fits.

And then, when things had gotten very, very bad, and Solas' armies had grown and committed atrocity after atrocity, in the name of bringing back the old world, well, it had been so much easier to think of their leader as Fen'harel, because that meant that _her_ Solas couldn't be responsible. Fen'harel was a villain from her Keeper's bedtime stories, and Solas was someone else entirely.

She knows the distinction between the two is much less simple than that, if such a distinction exists at all. 

But it had been easy to order Fen'harel's death; less easy to kill Solas.

Her feet feel heavy as she descends the dungeon steps. She'd made up her mind not to see him, and therefore hadn't thought about what to say, where to start.

"Be honest," Leliana had advised her, "but there are a few topics you should likely avoid. The orb, certainly, and perhaps any state secrets. He is imprisoned, but his network may still be operational."

Before she's decided on anything to say, she's in front of his cell.

Solas sits in a corner, back against one stone wall, head back against the stone and eyes closed. He doesn't seem to immediately register her presence, and she watches him for a moment, taking in his appearance.

There are dark circles under his eyes; his freckles stand out in start contrast against his face, pale and drawn. He's thinner than she remembered, as if he hasn't eaten properly in weeks. The faintest shadow of bristly hair is beginning to grow in on his scalp, which strikes her as absurd at first; she'd always assumed he wasn't bald by choice, but apparently that hadn't been the case. 

It seems wrong, somehow, for her to see him this way.

"You look awful," she blurts before she can stop herself.

Solas' eyes snap open. Surely he'd heard her approach, but he seems surprised, as if he'd expected someone else. 

His grey eyes are bloodshot. She wonders if he's had trouble sleeping, cut off from the Fade by the dungeon's aura.

"I did not think you'd come," he says, voice cracked with disuse, and closes his eyes again.

"I hadn't planned to," she admits.

He doesn't ask what changed her mind. In fact, after a pregnant pause, she realizes he's not going to reply at all.

"I was attacked yesterday," she says. "By one of your people. A man - well, a boy, really - by the name of Junar."

If Solas recognizes the name, he doesn't react to it. For all appearances, he seems not to be listening at all.

"Leliana couldn't get any information out of him, except that you'd ordered your people not to harm me, and with you gone he apparently decided I wasn't worth leaving alive anymore," she continues. "Though if he was trying to kill me, he should have known four assassins wouldn't be enough."

Solas doesn't respond.

She waits a minute or two, just in case he suddenly decides to be forthcoming, but after long enough she huffs. "Right," she says, "I knew this was a mistake," and walks away.

She's nearly to the dungeon stairs when he calls after her.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

Lavellan freezes in her tracks, and now it is her turn to be speechless.

"I know you intended to," he says. "I saw it in your face, when I let you past the barriers at Skyhold. Yet when you had the chance, you hesitated. Why?"

She doesn't answer.

"Do you even know?" he challenges.

She squares her shoulders, and walks purposefully back to his cell. "I'm not going to talk to you about that," she says, firmly.

"No, I suppose not," he agrees. The dark circles under his eyes seem very prominent, now that he's actually looking at her. "Irrational of me to think we could be honest with each other, even now."

"You're the one who always had an agenda," she reminds him, scowling. "Even when we first met, I knew there were things you weren't telling me. I let you have your secrets, and look where it got me."

"What reason could I possibly have to keep secrets from you now?" he points out. "I no longer possess the means to tear down the Veil as I intended. Even if I did, your Exalted Council is no doubt deciding my fate as we speak. You have won. It's over. Will you not even do me the decency of being straightforward with me now?"

" _Is_ it over?" she argues. "Your people are still trying to kill me, despite your own orders not to. Or am I supposed to believe that your network would simply fall apart without you?" She points to her own face, indicating the wound she'd received from last night's archer. "They haven't given up, even if you have. Tell me why, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"An answer for an answer," he muses, and she nods. He rises to his feet and turns his back to her, gazing out the tiny window near the ceiling of his cell. "Tell me what happened. The entire encounter, if you will."

It's not one of the topics Leliana cautioned her to avoid, so Lavellan complies. She describes not only the assassin they'd captured but also the other three, as best as she can, though she does _not_ mention that her recollection is shaky because she'd been drowning her sorrows in a gay brothel.

"Junar," Solas murmurs, tone contemplative. "A good field agent, to be certain, but I very much doubt he was acting on his own. It's possible he..." 

He trails off gradually, as if only now just realizing he's speaking aloud, and stops before he can reveal more.

"Can we not be honest with each other, even now?" she mimicks.

Solas turns around abruptly, hands clasped in front of him. His wrists are too thin, but his posture is upright and he seems to have regained a modicum of purpose. " _If_ Junar and his crew were not, in fact, working alone, they would have been under direction of another of my agents, whose identity I will not reveal," he says. "This particular agent is not one I placed my trust in idly. They would not disregard my orders, even after my capture, unless they had an extremely good reason. Which leads me to believe that your death, in their eyes, would either lead to my release, or to my return to power."

He pauses. "Knowing those who sit on the Exalted Council - Divine Victoria in particular comes to mind - in the event of your death, they would likely elect to have me executed with no further discussion," he continues. "Am I correct?"

"Probably," she admits. Cassandra's solution to every problem is generally to kill it.

"Then they must know something of the method you used to rob me of Mythal's soul," he concludes, the bitterness in his voice nearly tangible in its abundance, "and believe your death may reverse the process."

Lavellan's blood runs cold. She doesn't respond.

"Would it?" Solas presses.

"I don't know," Lavellan says finally, "and if I did, do you really think I would give you that information?" She rubs her hand over her face in frustration. "And furthermore - how could they have known? Very few people know that I took Mythal's spirit from you at all, let alone how."

Solas' face gives nothing away, but it doesn't need to.

"You have a spy in my Inquisition," she says angrily. "Even now."

"Would you expect anything less?" he points out.

"And here I thought we've been so careful," she replies, almost to herself. "Who is it?"

He doesn't answer, of course. 

Lavellan tries to distance herself from her resentment and think about it like Leliana would. Solas hasn't really given up, not if he's still willing to keep information from her. The man before her now has already changed so much from the defeated shell he was not a quarter of an hour ago. Their conversation has given him at least some sort of inkling that his cause is not yet a hopeless one.

If she wants any information out of him, she'll have to take that hope away.

His spies think that killing her will break the seal on Mythal's orb, though Solas doesn't yet know that. The question is then, of course, if it's true.

 _If_ it were true, then Solas could have killed her in Skyhold and still been successful, and Abelas would have had to consider that as a possibility. _Lavellan_ knows Solas wouldn't have killed her, at the time, but would Abelas have believed it?

 _Of course not,_ she thinks. Abelas had no reason to assume that Solas wouldn't immediately kill her, given the chance. This was a man who was willing to destroy the Well of Sorrows rather than see it taken by _shems_.

Solas' spies are wrong.

"An answer for an answer," she says. "One question, and one question only. Anything you wish to know - and I will tell you the truth. But in return, you'll give me the identity of your spy in my inner circle."

The number of people who know about Mythal's orb is incredibly small. That he has a spy within that number is nearly impossible - there's no way he would have more than one.

It's incredibly valuable currency, and they both know it. But if she knows Solas - and perhaps, even after all these years, she still does - his curiosity and ambition will win out.

He holds her gaze for a very long time, but he doesn't refuse, and she knows she's won.

"Agreed," he says finally. "But know that if you give me anything but an honest answer, I will know, and I will say nothing more."

"I know," she says. "Ask."

"Mythal's soul," he says immediately. "How did you seal it?"

Leliana would be furious if she knew Lavellan was about to reveal the _one_ thing she'd specifically said not to. But it's the only trump card she has.

"Abelas knew the location of Mythal's focus orb," she tells him. "Similar to yours, or so I'm told. Abelas enchanted it with my blood, and keyed it to my voice. He drew her soul into it, and I am the only one who can unlock it." She looks him pointedly in the eye. "There is no other soul that knows the password. Abelas is the only person to have heard me say it, and he's dead. This is not information your spy can retrieve for you. It is mine, and mine alone."

She sets her jaw, finds her resolve, and drives the knife deeper. "Your spies think that killing me will unseal it? They're wrong. If I die, it is lost to you forever. They could torture me for the password, I suppose, and I might even give it to them. But not before the Exalted Council orders your execution, and then what good will it do you?"

Solas' face is impassive, but she looks him in the eye and sees him realize it's true, and the last spark of hope she'd inadvertently given him vanishes.

"I believe you," he says finally, and turns away.

A long moment passes, and he doesn't say anything more. "You owe me a name," she says. "Your spy."

His head bows, as if the answer shames him.

"Compassion," he says finally.

It takes a moment to sink in.

"Cole?" she says, bewildered - but it can't be, she hasn't seen Cole in years - 

\- not that she remembers.

"No," she whispers. "Why would he - he returned to the Fade, I watched him go - "

"He did," Solas says quietly. "I visited him often, there. You had more of an influence on him than you know; it took years before I was able to convince him to help me. Even then, he knew my ritual would cause immeasurable pain. He had made up his mind to remain impartial, to a point."

 _No,_ she thinks helplessly.

"But he must have sensed the pain between you and I," Solas continues, "and I convinced him that I needed to see you, one last time. I stationed him in the rookery tower, and gave him the means to let you - and only you - cross the barrier."

"The Anchor," she realizes. "I felt - a memory of it. Or an echo."

"Yes," Solas says. "It was the last connection between you and I. I gave its remnants to Compassion."

"His name is _Cole,_ " Lavellan spits angrily.

"Not any longer," Solas argues. " _You_ were the one who decided his fate, when you taught him how to be a spirit once more. _You_ decided he was better off a spirit than the human boy he had tried to become."

"Because _you_ convinced me it was best!" Lavellan yells. "You can't tell me even then - even then, you had planned to _use_ him to -"

"To give us one last moment of happiness before I destroyed your world?" Solas finishes for her. "Of course not. I knew only that he would be a valuable ally, but only if he remained true to his purpose. And the choice, in the end, was yours."

Lavellan swallows hard. "I wouldn't have chosen to turn him against me," she says. "Not if I'd known."

"In his defense," Solas says quietly, "I do not believe Compassion saw it as turning _against_ you. I believe he did what he thought was best for the both of us."

Though she hates to think it, that _does_ sound like Cole.

"So what, then?" she asks. "He saw Abelas and I bind Mythal's soul, and decided what was _best_ for us was to have me killed?"

"No," Solas says. "That would be outside Compassion's nature. But my - spymaster, I suppose you would call her - knew that I had been in contact with him, and how to make contact herself. She may have been able to... extract information from him."

"Extract," she says flatly.

Solas doesn't respond.

"Torture it out of him, you mean," Lavellan seethes. "She'd turn Cole against his purpose, to suit hers? Exactly like those imbecilic mages tried to do to your own friend Wisdom? " She's shaking, now, blinking back tears of fury. "He wouldn't survive that! He's your _friend,_ and you've allowed her the means to _torture_ and _kill_ him!?"

"I would allow no such thing," Solas yells, rounding on her, and his face is a mask of rage and - pain? she wonders. "I do not even know if it's true, locked in here like this - I have been cut off from the Fade, unable even to dream. I could have warned him away from her, to escape -"

"Or you could have twisted him to your own purposes," she retorts.

He flinches.

Lavellan heaves in a breath, trying to get herself under control. "Cole might still be alive," she says levelly. "I will not allow you access to the Fade to verify that. But you can tell me how to find him."

Solas regards her dispassionately. "You don't have the ability," he says. "You would have to be a mage, and a Dreamer, at that."

"You said yourself that I could do things in the Fade no non-mage should be able to do," she reminds him coldly. "Tell me."

"You might lack the skill," he says, "now that the Anchor has been removed."

"Tell me anyway," she says. "You owe it to me. You owe it to Cole."

Solas closes his eyes.

"There is a place, in Val Royeaux," he says at last. "A cafe on the Belle Marché. I believe it held some sort of significance to him, though I don't know what. The echo of that place can be found in the Fade, and it is where I would often find Compassion, when I had need of him."

"Le Masque du Lion," Lavellan remembers.

Solas nods.

"I never meant for any harm to come to him," he says quietly.

"You never meant for a lot of things to happen," she replies ruthlessly. "And yet here we are. A wonder your mistakes took this long to catch up to you."

She doesn't wait for a response.

She just walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...obligatory shameless [tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com) plug?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'All you have to do is fall asleep, Inquisitor,'" she mutters to herself, mimicking Dorian's words. "Anyone can do that. Anyone except you, of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! I hope your holidays were all excellent!
> 
> As always, many thanks to the lovely Trish for the proofreading assistance!

"What do you mean you can't do it?" Lavellan demands.

She'd returned immediately to her quarters after her visit to Solas' cell, to find Dorian and Cullen engrossed in a game of chess set up atop the trunk containing Mythal's orb, Cullen's mabari snoozing at his side. 

Dorian spreads his hands in pacification. "As much as I hate to agree with the man who broke your heart, _amica_ , he's unfortunately right in this particular instance. It would take a somniari to manipulate the Fade in the way you're talking about, and I am no somniari."

Lavellan wants to scream.

"However," Dorian continues, placating, "that doesn't mean I can't help you. You need a somniari, and I have just the one in mind. His name is Feynriel, and he's a friend of mine."

To Lavellan's surprise, it is Cullen who reacts first. "You know Feynriel?" he asks, taken aback.

"Oh yes," Dorian says. "Do you?"

"It's more that I know _of_ him," Cullen admits. "He was a member of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi while I was stationed there. We never spoke, but if I recall correctly, he went into some sort of magical coma and... just disappeared?"

"He'd been beset upon by a sloth demon, I believe," Dorian says.

"How did he escape?" Lavellan asks. "Isn't it nearly impossible to resist Sloth alone, once it has you?"

"If I recall, he was rescued by the Champion of Kirkwall," Dorian replies. "Woke up from the coma and ran off to Tevinter to learn more about his abilities. Though Hawke wasn't yet Champion, at the time."

An uncomfortable silence falls over the room.

Lavellan has made countless crucial decisions during her time as Inquisitor, but Hawke's fate is the one she regrets most. She's always followed her gut instinct, always believed her choices to be the right thing according to her conscience, but...

It had come down to a split-second decision, facing the Nightmare in the Fade, between Alistair and Hawke. And she'd chosen Hawke to stay behind.

There were a myriad of reasons she could think of to explain why - that she'd needed the Wardens, or that Hawke was better suited to fighting demons, but -

In the end, it had been Hawke's eyes.

The Champion had always believed Corypheus to be his responsibility. He'd let the creature out of its prison, however unwittingly, and he'd never let go of the guilt. And Lavellan had met his gaze in the Fade and known, then, that Hawke saw the Nightmare as his atonement.

So she'd left him behind. Left him to die.

She'll never forget Varric's face when he'd found out. The rift it had caused in their friendship had never really healed, not entirely.

Dorian clears his throat. "In any case," he says, attempting to ease out of the awkward silence, "Feynriel's been working with the Lucerni for a year or so now, so I should be able to get in touch with him. Give me a few minutes to raise Maevaris on the crystal, and I'll have more for you."

"Thank you," Lavellan says. Dorian trots off to retrieve his communication crystal, and Lavellan slumps into the seat he'd vacated. 

"Care for a game?" Cullen offers. "Dorian's going to lose this one anyway."

Lavellan shakes her head. "Sorry," she says. "I'm not really in the mood." She rubs at the bridge of her nose, trying to will away the pervasive headache she's had for nearly a week now. It would probably go away with a good night's sleep, but she hasn't had one of those in quite some time. "I'd probably be a poor opponent, in any case."

"You can't possibly be worse than Dorian," Cullen tells her, "though he'd be much more formidable if he learned to play without cheating."

Cullen, in contrast to herself, looks a sight healthier than he ever did during his time as the Inquisition's commander. The lyrium withdrawals had always given him trouble, she knew, and more often than not she'd walked into his office to find him hunched over in pain, shivering and clammy.

But the withdrawals had passed over the years, and though his hair is going grey at the temples there's more color in Cullen's face now; he's put on a comfortable bit of weight and muscle, and seems to have more energy as well. It gladdens her to see it. The memory of him hurling his philter kit across his office is one she'd not like to revisit, given the choice.

"How are you holding up?" he asks her.

She sighs. "Not well," she says honestly.

Cullen's mabari whines and lumbers over to her, laying his great head in her lap with a _whump_.

"Ser Reginald seems to be worried about you," Cullen says. "As are we all."

She scratches her nails through the fur behind Reggie's ear. "I know," she replies. "I'm worried about me too."

"Leliana mentioned you're thinking of retiring," he tells her.

"Going to try to talk me out of it?" she asks.

"Not at all," Cullen answers. "On the contrary, I think it might be best. You've given so much to the Inquisition, at great personal cost to yourself." He gives her a wry half-smile, the scar through his mouth pulling at the corners. "Take it from someone on the other side of retirement himself."

"You haven't properly retired," she reminds him. "Not if you're still following me around bashing things in with that shield of yours."

"Retired from command, then," he amends. "There was a time when I'd have sooner ran the length of Kirkwall's gallows bare-arsed naked than let someone else be in control of the Inquisition's army."

"I know the feeling," she agrees.

"Would you appoint your own successor, or let Cassandra do it?" Cullen asks.

"I don't know," she says. "I haven't thought about it, to be honest, I just..." She bends over, resting her forehead atop Reggie's enormous furry one. "I'm so tired," she admits, muffled.

"I know," Cullen says quietly.

Dorian chooses that moment to come sauntering back in, crystal glowing brightly in his hand. " _Mille gratialis,_ Mae," he says, "I'll just tell the Inquisitor what we've discussed, shall I? Say hello to Maevaris, _amices_."

Lavellan has only spoken to Maevaris Tilani a few times, but she likes the other woman a great deal. "Hello again, Mae," she says, and Cullen echoes her.

" _Ooo, is that the Commander I've heard so much about?_ " Mae starts, but Dorian silences the crystal before she can continue.

"Don't mind Maevaris, she's an insatiable gossip," Dorian says. "I spoke to Feynriel as well, and we agreed that the easiest way to track down Cole will be if Feynriel Fade-walks in your dreams tonight, _amica_. He's never met Cole before, but you have, so he can lead you to the place in the Fade where Solas said you'll find him, and with any luck you can bring the lad home. Simple enough, no?"

"It's that easy for him?" Lavellan asks, a bit unsettled. "He can just... walk into anyone's dreams that he likes?"

"As I understand it, there's a great deal of ritual involved," Dorian tells her, "but yes. He'd never do it without someone's permission, of course, or without exceedingly dire circumstances. It's one of the reasons the Dalish Dreamers of old were so feared, if I recall. Weren't they all hunted down?"

"And killed, yes," Lavellan says grimly.

"Charming," Cullen says. "I must say, I don't like the idea of you going back into the Fade yet again, Inquisitor."

Reggie _whuffs_ in agreement.

"Well, at least it's not physically this time," Dorian reminds him.

"And how will I know it's Feynriel in my dreams, and not some demon pretending to be him?" Lavellan asks.

"It's extremely unlikely you'll be targeted by any demons," Dorian assures her. "You're no mage, and the lesser demons tend to go after magical targets. In the event it's a greater demon, well, you've tangled with Envy and Pride before. You're telling me the great Inquisitor won't be able to spot a demon in disguise?"

Lavellan bristles at that. "No, of course not," she says indignantly.

"Then it's settled," Dorian says. "Feynriel has a few things to set up on his end, but he should be ready by the time you're going to bed anyway. All you have to do is fall asleep."

"That hasn't been easy for me, lately," she laments.

"I can procure a sleeping draught for you, if you like," Cullen offers.

Dorian shakes his head. "Sleeping draughts have a tendency to muddle a person's dreams, and you'll need your wits about you," he says. "You'll have to do it the old-fashioned way, I'm afraid."

"Counting sheep?" Lavellan guesses.

"I was going to say 'good sex,' but I suppose that'll do," Dorian replies, smirking. "Pleasant dreams, Inquisitor."

-

Lavellan counts sheep.

She tosses and turns, and tosses and turns, and then tries not to toss and turn, and then tosses and turns some more. She measures and counts her breathing like Heir had taught her to during her assassin training. She tenses and relaxes each individual muscle in her body, and imagines herself sinking deeper into her plush, expensive, Orlesian mattress.

Nothing.

"'All you have to do is fall asleep, Inquisitor,'" she mutters to herself, mimicking Dorian's words. "Anyone can do that. Anyone except you, of course."

And of course, now she's getting anxious that she can't sleep, which isn't going to help matters.

Finally, she gives up and gets out of bed to go demand a sleeping draught from Cullen, wits be damned. She wraps her Antivan-imported silk probably-made-from-the-tears-of-orphans dressing gown around her and storms out her quarters door.

Right onto the shores of the Minanter River.

She blinks, and looks down at herself, at her old Dalish hunting leathers and her glowing green left hand.

 _Oh,_ she thinks.

Apparently she _had_ fallen asleep at some point, then.

"Come on, Deshanna, we're going to get in trouble," says her own voice, and before she can process how odd that is, two elven girls barrel past her - one tow-headed, one dark-haired, both still pubescent and awkward, long-limbed and freckle-faced.

She remembers this. She and her older sister had snuck into the city their clan had camped near, gawking at the humans and their strange, crowded streets and silly customs. She hadn't even been old enough to receive her vallaslin yet, though Deshanna had, the tree of Falon'Din upon her face signifying her new status as the Keeper's First.

Deshanna had gotten caught pilfering a sweetmeat from a merchant's stall - much less sneaky than Lavellan herself, who'd already stolen three. The merchant had tried to call the guardsmen on them, and things had escalated quickly.

"I can't believe you _stabbed_ that shem, Athima," Deshanna had panted as they ran.

Lavellan feels a strange wave of nostalgia. No one has called her by her given name in a very long time.

With nothing better to do, Lavellan follows her younger self and her sister to the borders of their encampment, pausing before the statue of Fen'harel turned to face away from the camp proper.

For a moment she half-expects it to move. Usually the wolves in her dreams are more ominous, and she'd always suspected Solas was using them to spy on her. But Solas doesn't have access to the Fade right now, imprisoned as he is, and the stone here is just stone.

Well, Fade-stone.

"Feeling pensive?"

The man appears next to her as if from nowhere, but feels as familiar as if he'd been there the whole time.

"Feynriel, I presume," she says.

The stranger nods. He's tall, and appears human, though she knows from Dorian that he has Dalish blood. His tawny hair is braided in a long tail down his back, and his clothes have the odd asymmetrical style that Lavellan has come to associate with Tevinter fashion.

He has kind eyes. Lavellan wonders if that's real, or a manipulation of the Fade.

"I'm impressed," Feynriel says quietly. "Most people have to be convinced they're dreaming, but you knew right away."

"I'm not most people," she tells him.

"No," he agrees. "It's good to meet you, Inquisitor, but we shouldn't linger. Time doesn't pass normally in the Fade, but it's best not to dally. Dorian explained to you what we're doing?"

Lavellan grimaces. "Sort of? I may have stopped listening once things got too academic," she admits.

Feynriel smiles. "Dorian has that effect on people," he says, and waves a hand at their surroundings. "You recognize this place? Where we are, now?"

"We're in the Free Marches, near Ansburg," she answers. "My clan camped here once, when I was young. Though I suppose it's not _really_ the Free Marches, right? Just an echo of it, in the Fade."

"Very good," Feynriel says. "The Fade shapes itself to mirror the mind of the dreamers within it. You are the dreamer here, and so the Fade takes on the shape your mind gave it when you began dreaming. Most people can't change the shape of their dreams voluntarily, even lucid dreamers like yourself."

"But you can," Lavellan concludes. "Because you're a somniari."

"Yes," he agrees, "but to find your friend, I'll need your help, since you know where we're going. I'm just here to shape the Fade around you. I hold the reins, but you're our trail guide."

"What do I do?" she asks.

"Tell me about the place where this spirit of yours can be found," Feynriel says.

Lavellan thinks about what Solas had told her. "It's an echo of a place in the waking world," she says. "A cafe in Val Royeaux called the Masque du Lion."

Feynriel nods. "Spirits often craft their dwelling places out of thoughts or memories that have significance to them. This place, you've been there?"

"Cole and I went together, once," she remembers. "The civil war in Orlais hadn't yet ended, and the peace talks were being held later that week at Halamshiral. But I wanted something fun, for once, and Cole seemed so different, after we gave him the Rivaini amulet. And I wanted to make sure he was still... Cole. My Cole."

She smiles at the memory. "He _was_ different, but he was helping people, and that made him happy, I suppose. He kept telling people what they needed to hear, and some of it was downright ridiculous - there was a man who wanted his wife to tie him up, and a woman who desperately wanted someone to compliment that ridiculous hat she was wearing - "

"Inquisitor," Feynriel says gently. "Look."

The Fade is shifting around them, their surroundings taking on a shimmering quality not unlike desert air on a particularly hot day. The burble of the Minanter River begins to sound curiously like distant voices, louder with each passing moment. 

Lavellan's skin itches. The air feels heavy, cooler every moment, making the fine downy hairs on her arms stand on end. Fen'harel's stone likeness wavers. Lavellan blinks, and it is no longer a stone wolf, but a golden lion, the soft earth under it giving way to unyielding marble.

Within moments the entire landscape of Lavellan's dream is transformed into the Summer Bazaar - or something like it. Here and there, the details aren't quite right; fabrics and baubles hang suspended where a shopkeeper's stall should be, as if the tables holding them were still there, but invisible. The plaques commemorating the golden lion statues are blank, dull in places as if the etching has been buffed out. The eight enormous draperies overhead, though they ought to be lush red, are pale blue, tattered and threadbare.

"Did you make this?" Lavellan asks.

"No," Feynriel answers, "this place already existed. I brought us here, using your memory."

"It's freezing," she says. The air is colder than winter ought to be, even in Orlais, and frost clings to every available surface. Lavellan's breath puffs out visibly in front of her; she draws her hunting leathers closer around her, only to find they have been replaced by the sturdy purple coat Harritt had crafted for her when she'd first officially joined the Inquisition.

"I sense spirits at work here," Feynriel says. "Be on your guard."

The circular plaza is dwarfed at one end by the gates leading to the Avenue of Her Reflective Thought; they're a useful landmark even in this uncanny not-quite-twin of the real Summer Bazaar. She walks in the opposite direction from them, towards the Belle Marche and its cafe.

The frost is much thicker here. The podium where the host usually stands is deserted now, and every table is empty. Something clatters underneath Lavellan's boot as she enters, the sound falling oddly flat. She stoops to pick it up and recognizes it immediately, though it's been several years since she last saw it.

"An Amulet of the Unbound," she tells Feynriel.

"What is it?" he asks.

She turns it over in her fingers, remembering. "Rivaini seers use them to protect spirits they summon from being bound by other mages," she tells him. "After the Grey Wardens were nearly enslaved by Corypheus, Cole was terrified that a blood mage could entrap him, compel him to obey. I had the Inquisition track the amulet down to prevent that from happening." Her fingers tighten around it. "If he's not wearing it, it could mean -"

The amulet flares abruptly, burning hot in Lavellan's hand. She drops it out of reflex. It bounces on the stone tiles, and from the place where it lands, a thousand thousand tiny spiders swarm and skitter away. She looks down, and they're on her hands, crawling across her skin.

Lavellan shouts and recoils, frantic, trying to get them off. Feynriel echoes her cry, covered in spiders as well. She slips on the icy ground; a burst of frigid wind surrounds her, its source at her back, and the spiders shrivel, legs curling into their bodies as they die.

She turns around.

The source of the bitter cold is a shriveled husk, wrapped in rags and floating a foot or so off the ground; a despair demon, Lavellan thinks, only a very small one, and not trying to kill her, at the moment. Its eyes, if it has them, are obscured by its shroud, and rather than the rows and rows of teeth typical of most despair demons, its mouth is nothing more than a wide, gaping slash.

The mouth opens. Its voice is like a screech of metal against stone.

"Hurts," it says, "it hurts, it's too much, don't tell, spiders and eyes, watching, waiting, whispers."

"Careful," Feynriel warns.

Lavellan takes a tentative step towards it, left hand outstretched. The demon cringes away from the Anchor's light, shrinking in on itself.

"It hurts, it hurts," it rasps, "it's too bright, counting birds against the sun."

The demon's voice is all wrong, but Lavellan has heard those words before

"Cole," she whispers.

The creature's mouth splits wide as it shrieks, ice bursting into jagged existence around it. "Not Cole," it says, "no name, not anymore, not since the hurt. Can't take away the hurt, helping hurts, helped her to make the hurt stop."

"Solas' spymaster," Lavellan says. "She came here to get information from you? She hurt you?"

"Hurts," it says. "He tried to hide, tried to tell, no one left to listen. She stole the sigil, stole the shield, no sanctuary. The spider woman."

Lavellan thinks of the swarms of tiny insects on her skin, and holds out the amulet. "She took this from you, didn't she?"

The creature - Cole - uncoils a little, a spindly, wraith-like arm extending from its rags. It reaches for the amulet, and Lavellan holds very still as it takes it, not wanting to spook it.

"She took it away so she could bind you, and make you answer her questions," Lavellan guesses. "Like Solas' friend Wisdom, remember?"

"Wanted the secrets," says Cole, or Despair. It clutches the amulet close. "He saw the spell, the soul inside. Sworn to silence, couldn't keep quiet. He told her everything."

"Who do you mean, 'he?'" she asks.

"Compassion," says the demon.

"Cole," she says, "Compassion, that's you."

It shivers.

"She asked you about Mythal's orb," Lavellan says. "About what Abelas and I did, to trap her soul. You were there, even though I didn't remember you. You saw it, but you weren't going to tell anyone. But Solas' spymaster bound you and made you tell, and that turned you away from your purpose, and now you're..."

"Despair," it agrees. "He hurt them, but he was supposed to help."

"You can still help, Cole," she says. "But first I want to help you."

"Help," it repeats.

When she and Solas had broken Wisdom's summoning circle, it had reverted instantly to its natural shape, the geas commanding it to kill no longer in effect - though it hadn't survived the shock. Cole has the amulet now, so his own binding should be broken, she thinks. And yet his form is still twisted into that of Despair.

When they'd first given Cole the amulet, it hadn't worked, because he was too human. Solas had helped him find his purpose again, by encouraging Compassion to heal the templar who had killed the first Cole.

Here, she has no one's hurt for him to heal. No one's but her own.

She holds out her right hand.

"Cole," she says. "I once asked you what you sensed if you focused on me, do you remember?"

"The mark makes you more," says Despair.

"But past that," Lavellan says.

"Blood that is not blood, a tiny trace of time," it replies. "Lips struggling to shape language your parents lived. And past that, the weight of all on you. All the hopes you carry, fears you fight. You are theirs. It must be very hard. I hope I help."

"You did help, Cole," she tells him. "You were always helping. We missed you, when you came back to the Fade, even though you made everyone a bit uncomfortable, because you _did_ help. You helped all of us. You still can."

Despair's other hand comes out to grasp at Lavellan's fingers. It's blisteringly cold, like trying to hold an icicle with her bare hand, but she doesn't pull away.

"Pain," it says. "Pulling away, again and again and again. Feet that drag on the floor, kept upright by wires, so tired. You chase the wolf, but the wolf chases you too, and it hurts to love him but it hurts not to."

Lavellan nods mutely. She swallows hard past the sudden lump in her throat.

"You don't want to love him because you don't think you should," it goes on, "but you can't stop, and it hurts. You think you have to be the one to end it, but you don't. It's okay. You can let it go, cut the wires. You can stop."

Its bony fingers are a little warmer, now, entangled in Lavellan's own. "You don't have to choose. Not choosing is a choice, too. It's okay to mourn what was lost. You can let go."

Lavellan shuts her eyes against the tears threatening to form there.

"You can let go," it repeats, and the flash of light that follows flares red against her eyelids. When she opens her eyes, the despair demon's shape is fading away, its outline shifting into a kneeling human, with a wide-brimmed, floppy hat.

"Cole," she chokes, stumbling forward to wrap her arms around him.

"Thank you," he says, "I hope I helped -"

\- and then he's gone, melting away like the frost around them.

_No._

Lavellan weeps.

She doesn't know how long she kneels there, after, on the stones of Le Masque du Lion. Where Cole had been, the amulet lies innocuously on the ground. Lavellan picks it up and cradles between her hands like a living thing.

All of her companions in the Inquisition had agendas of their own. Even her closest friends had been clear that there were things other than the Inquisition that they stood for and believed in.

All Cole had ever wanted to do was help. She'd been the first to believe in him, after he saved her from Envy in the Fade. She'd protected him from Cassandra and Cullen's doubt, from Vivienne's disdain. She'd developed a strange sort of maternal sentiment towards him, and though it had broken her heart when he'd decided to return to the Fade, she'd known it was what was best for him, what he wanted.

Had she led him to this fate?

"I'm sorry," Feynriel says.

His voice is startling; Lavellan had forgotten he was there.

"He was himself," she says quietly. "There at the end, he was himself again."

She gently untangles the amulet's cord and puts it on. It's warm against her chest, like the tiny flicker of a candle flame. 

Grief and guilt war in the pit of her stomach.

 _No,_ she thinks. She will not believe that. If anyone is to blame, it is the woman who had tortured and interrogated her friend.

"Solas' spymaster," she says. "She's the one who did this. The spider woman."

Even Solas had refused to use Cole against his will. Anything Cole had done for Solas, he'd done believing it to be what was right.

But to corrupt him into a despair demon - the very thing he feared more than all else - was unforgivable.

"She may return here," Feynriel says. "If she finds this place empty, she'll know what happened. She may come for you."

"Let her," Lavellan says coldly. "I'd like a few words with her, myself." She gets to her feet, and as she does, movement catches her eye.

Out on the cobblestones of the Belle Marche, outside the cafe, is a halla.

Feynriel is saying something to her, likely about leaving the Fade and re-entering the physical world, but Lavellan isn't listening.

The halla turns its head towards her, its curved antlers glinting in the greenish light of the Fade. Its eyes are bright, fixed on her, and she finds herself unable to look away.

Her people tell stories of halla that lead the dead into the afterlife. Fairy tales, perhaps, but this is the Fade, and it's shaped by her thoughts.

 _Is it here to honor Cole?_ she wonders.

The halla whickers softly and tilts its head away, trotting off down the Belle Marche, and vanishing straight through the closed door of a nearby shop. Without thinking Lavellan follows after it, legs moving almost without her permission.

"Where are you going?" Feynriel asks, but she doesn't answer.

The door is solid enough to her own touch. She turns the handle; it's unlocked.

"Wait, don't -" Feynriel starts, but it's too late.

Lavellan opens the door and steps through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com/)! I'm nice. And I post when updates are coming up. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apprehension makes Lavellan's skin crawl, and she's reminded of following Shaper Valta into the heart of the Titan. In the Deep Roads - and past them - every step she'd taken had been heavy and foreboding, and she'd felt as if the next step down into the abyss would be one step too far for her to return.
> 
> Is she mad, to be following some Fade-construct who-knows-where?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely proofreader, cheerleader, and all-around enabler finally got herself an AO3 account! [PMLolz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz/pseuds/PMLolz), a.k.a. Trish, is the main reason the Sorrow No More 'verse exists, instead of being a half-formed pile of headcanons in the back of my brain. Also, without her input, apparently every other word in this chapter would be 'quite'. Writing tics? I don't quite know what you're talking about?!
> 
> This chapter is short, but there will be another one very soon. How soon? I don't know, Jojo, why don't you stop procrastinating and keep writing, you fool!

When Lavellan had been young, she'd wandered away from her clan's camp and fallen down a cliff.

It was the day before she was to receive her vallaslin, and she'd been nervous. Everyone said the ritual was incredibly painful, but she wasn't to make a sound, lest the Keeper decide she was too immature for the vallaslin and stop the ritual. Even Deshanna, who their mother called her 'delicate flower,' hadn't whimpered, though afterward she'd cried quite a lot.

But Athima was her father's brave hunter, and she knew everyone expected her to be tough and not cry. It was all the clan could talk about the night before it happened, and she'd gotten sick of it and gone for a walk in the woods.

It had been very dark, and the clan had only been in the area for a day or so, and the forest here was unfamiliar and unfriendly. By the time she'd realized how lost she was, she'd been missing from the camp for hours.

She hadn't known, then, that the scouts had been sent out to find her, and so when she heard footsteps behind her, she'd taken off running, terrified of humans or malicious forest spirits or worse.

And she'd run straight off a cliff, and wound up with a dislocated shoulder and broken ankle.

She'd passed out, then, and it was morning when she woke, hungry and hurt. She'd tried to limp her way out of the gorge she'd fallen into, but hadn't gotten far.

That was when the halla came.

It wasn't one of the ones she recognized from the camp, with their coats neatly groomed and their hooves carefully shod. No, this was a wild creature, but it didn't seem to fear her at all; rather, it walked right up to her and let her climb upon its back, and bore her straight back to her camp.

The clan had been astonished, and the Keeper had said she must be favored of Ghilan'nain, to have the halla treat her so. And that day, when she received her vallaslin, the Keeper had given her Ghilan'nain's mark, rather than Andruil's, which would usually be bestowed on a hunter.

Lavellan had never again seen another halla so fearless. Those she encountered in the wild always fled at the first sign of danger, and even Hanal'ghilan had to be carefully herded into Ithiren's care.

The halla she follows now, though, is different.

Its hooves don't _quite_ touch the ground, and though its fur seems white at first glance, it shifts iridescently from not-exactly-gold to almost black, and Lavellan can't seem to look at it for more than a moment or so before her eyes find reason to slide away and focus on other things. 

Is she still in her own dream? There's no sign of Feynriel - clearly she's left him behind, but she can't seem to bring herself to mind, particularly. She isn't sure why, but she knows that following the halla is important.

It leads her deeper and deeper into the Fade, through shifting landscapes that are all at once both familiar and incredibly strange. It's as if someone has patched together a thousand scraps of Lavellan's own memories - the vast emptiness of the Hissing Wastes, the twisting mountain pathways of the Emprise du Lion, the oppressive darkness underneath the lake at Crestwood.

Apprehension makes Lavellan's skin crawl, and she's reminded of following Shaper Valta into the heart of the Titan. In the Deep Roads - and past them - every step she'd taken had been heavy and foreboding, and she'd felt as if the next step down into the abyss would be one step too far for her to return.

Is she mad, to be following some Fade-construct who-knows-where?

Then all at once, the surroundings solidify into one cohesive picture, and Lavellan finds herself back at the outskirts of her old clan's camp.

Like the Summer Bazaar, the camp is familiar and yet not-exactly-right. The statues of the Creators are shattered, reduced to stone rubble. The camp is deserted, the aravels dirty and uncared for, sunk deep in their trenches as if they've been there a very, very long time.

It's as if the camp had been abandoned all at once, and left to ruin for centuries.

Lavellan shivers, but not from cold.

The halla trots to the center of the camp, where a figure sits upon a tree stump, its back turned to her.

Lavellan's curiosity doesn't _quite_ outstrip her sense of self-preservation, and she gives the figure a wide berth as she rounds to get a look at its face - 

\- and it's her Keeper.

Her old, Keeper, that is - Thenereth, who had given her her vallaslin. He'd died only a few years before the Breach, of a fever that had swept through the clan. Lavellan's sister Deshanna had taken his place as clan leader, afterwards, though she'd been awfully young to be a Keeper at the time.

"Hahren," she says automatically, surprised.

Keeper Thenereth turns to look at her, but his face is wrong.

He has no vallaslin.

"So it's you," he says, and his voice is wrong, too, rasping as if hoarse from disuse.

"You're not the Keeper," she says, taking a step back.

"No," he agrees, and rests a hand atop the halla's white head. It vanishes.

"What are you, then?" Lavellan challenges, wary. "Some sort of spirit, or demon?"

"Don't be so quick to pin labels on things you don't understand, girl," says the impostor, and in that moment it actually _does_ sound like her Keeper. "You don't even live up to your _own_ label, do you, 'Herald of Andraste?'"

"I never claimed to be anyone's Herald," Lavellan says, the response she's always given to the title she didn't ask for. "And how do you know me, anyway?"

"You'd be hard-pressed to find a living thing in this place that _doesn't_ know you," the not-Keeper says, waving a hand at its surroundings. "Rare for a physical creature to enter the spirit world once, and unheard of for it to happen twice. And yet you did it, and lived to tell the tale. A most curious sight."

Lavellan does _not_ like the way it's looking at her. "So you lured me here out of, what, curiosity, then?"

"Among other things," it says.

Lavellan blinks, and it's suddenly in front of her without actually having moved - she lurches back, but it catches her by both arm, grip surprisingly tight. "Imagine my surprise to find you here once again," it murmurs, "and right when I have need of you, as well. But you're not physically here at all, are you? You're dreaming."

 _And now would be a very good time to wake up,_ she thinks.

"That won't do," it says, and leans very close, mouth inches from her ear. "I'll need you to come back in the flesh, dear. You'll do that for me, won't you?" It's voice is honey-sweet, tempting.

Lavellan makes a face. "Er," she says. She's heard of certain desire demons that can persuade with just the sound of their voice, but... "No?"

It frowns, the not-Keeper's face distorting for a moment. "No?" it says, and its hold loosens just a fraction. "That isn't right, you shouldn't be able to..."

Its eyes fall on Cole's amulet, draped around her neck.

Well, whatever compulsion it had tried to put on her, it hadn't worked. Lavellan doesn't look her gift horse in the mouth. She shoves her weight forward, headbutting the demon straight in the mouth, and it reels back, releasing her.

She turns tail and flees, sprinting through the Fade-forest. Within moments the not-Keeper is tearing after her, shouting curses in a language she doesn't understand.

 _Please wake up, please wake up,_ she thinks, panicking, stranded in the Fade without Feynriel or any weapons at all.

Lavellan is one of the swiftest people she knows - she can outstrip any of her fellow Inquisition members at a footrace, even long-legged Cassandra and Bull's mercenary Stitches, who claimed to have outrun a dragon over the length of Lady Shayna's Valley.

She is not, as it turns out, swift enough to escape this particular demon. 

It catches her just as she's leaping to clear an enormous tree root, sending both of them tumbling to the ground. She scrambles away, kicking out at her pursuer, but it creeps after her.

"What a pretty little bauble," it says, reaching out with limbs that are much too long to belong to the Keeper's image it maintains. "I wonder if you'll be so stubborn once it's gone."

Lavellan clutches defensively at Cole's amulet, and when she touches it the demon's illusion peels away, revealing its true form. It's vaguely person-shaped, though monstrous, its body comprised of fused wood like the ironbark her clan used to trade. Purple light seeps from fissures in its brambly skin, and its head is twisted into the merest semblance of a face, with enormous antlers much like the halla it had used to lure her in. Its eyes are no more than purplish embers, and its mouth is jagged, uneven and asymmetrical.

"Ungrateful whelp," it says, "you may have spurned my mark, but you are still _mine_ ," and its limbs close around Lavellan's neck -

\- and she wakes up, gasping, something thick and viscous burning a line like fire down her throat.

"There, there," says a soothing voice, a firm hand cradling the back of her head, supporting her as she retches. "Easy does it. You're quite safe, darling."

Lavellan opens her eyes to see Vivienne, whose appearance - though surprising - has never been a lovelier sight. Dorian looms over her, expression panicked in comparison to Vivienne, ever-unruffled.

"What happened?" Lavellan chokes.

"You wouldn't wake up," Dorian says agitatedly. "Feynriel was in a frenzy, he said he _lost_ you in the Fade -"

"You've been asleep for two days," Vivienne informs her, deftly capping the potion she'd apparently just poured down Lavellan's throat. "It happens to the Circle mages, sometimes, if they're in the clutches of a particularly nasty demon, but it's easy enough to fix, for an experienced enchanter. Are you alright, my dear?"

Lavellan's hands - no, just one hand, now. Her hand goes to her throat, where the demon had gripped her. Cole's amulet, strangely, still hangs around her neck. She wraps her fingers around it, shaken. 

"Two days," she says, horror setting in. "The trial - Solas' trial, is it -?"

Vivienne and Dorian exchange a long look. "It's already been decided," Dorian says. "We weren't sure you were going to wake up at all, and you went into the Fade on his word - everyone thought he had done something to you, and, well..."

"Dorian," Lavellan says. "Tell me."

"They sentenced him to death," Dorian says. "It's happening today. This afternoon."

Lavellan nods mutely.

_You may have spurned my mark, but you are still mine._

If that means what she thinks it means, then -

"I need to see him," she says. "Now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to chat about creepy Fade demons or headcanons? Want to join Jojo in Solavellan hell? You can find me on [Tumblr!](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com) I don't bite unless you ask me _very_ nicely.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Creators," she curses, running her hand over her face. "I - I'm still so _angry_ with you, and I can't -"
> 
> She swallows. Tries again.
> 
>  _Honesty,_ she reminds herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, credit is due to the lovely [PMLolz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz/pseuds/PMLolz), aka Trish, for being the best cheerleader, proofreader, and whip-cracker a girl could ask for.
> 
> Bit of a warning in this chapter for strong language, temper tantrums, and of course some good ol' fashioned angst.

Lavellan doesn't even bother explaining herself to poor Dorian and Vivienne in her haste to get to the dungeon. Nor, for that matter, does she dismiss the guards, too preoccupied with the Fade demon's words. 

_I'll need you to come back in the flesh, dear._

Why? What does it need from her that it could only obtain physically?

 _You may have spurned my mark, but you are still_ mine.

"Solas," she barks without preamble, before she's even made it to his cell. 

He looks up, startled. "You're awake," he says. "They said you'd -"

"Gone into the Fade," she cuts him off, "yes. With some help."

"And Compassion?" Solas urges.

Lavellan swallows. In the aftermath, she'd nearly forgotten.

" _Cole_ is dead," she says coldly. "Your spymaster pried information from him that he did not wish to give. He turned, and I helped him find himself again, but he didn't survive."

Solas' face is unreadable. He opens his mouth to respond. "I -"

"Spare me," she says. "That's not why I'm here. I need to know about your ritual, and I need you to be honest with me. When Abelas and I interrupted you, did the ritual fail entirely? Or were there parts of it that might have succeeded?"

Whatever he might have been expecting her to ask, it clearly wasn't that. "I don't know," he says, taken aback. "I've had no access to the Fade, so I can't be sure. Why?"

"Could it have awakened the Evanuris?" Lavellan demands.

All the color drains from Solas' face.

"No," he breathes. "That shouldn't - it shouldn't be possible."

"I need a lot better than 'shouldn't be,'" she says, "because I think I ran into Ghilan'nain in the Fade."

She launches into a detailed explanation of what she'd encountered, from spotting the halla in not-Val-Royeaux to escaping the demon that had masqueraded as her keeper. "It was like no demon I'd ever encountered," she says, "and that's saying something. I'm not really sure it was a demon at all, and it said I 'spurned its mark.' And I _know_ it wasn't Corypheus, so it can't have been talking about the anchor, which leaves -"

"Your vallaslin," Solas realizes. 

"My vallaslin, which represented Ghilan'nain," she finishes. "It used a halla to lure me to it. Its true form had antlers."

"It does sound like the form her spirit would take in the Fade," Solas says carefully.

"What does that mean?" she asks.

"When I imprisoned the Evanuris in the Fade," he tells her, "I couldn't find a way to kill them. Their spirits were too strong, imbued with too much raw magical power. So I built the Veil to separate them from their bodies, and put their spirits into eternal sleep. Uthenera. And barring the destruction of the Veil, there's no way to awaken them, unless..."

Lavellan waits for him to continue, and when he doesn't, she prompts, "Unless what?"

Solas closes his eyes. "It's _possible_ that my ritual, if interrupted... may have caused a shockwave through the Fade. The spell was designed to disrupt the Veil, but if it backfired, the residual energy may have disrupted the enchantment keeping the Evanuris in uthenera."

It takes her a moment to process that.

"Fuck!" she shouts, slamming her hand hard against the wall. The brief pain barely registers in her anger.

"They can't escape the Fade," Solas says hurriedly. "They don't have physical forms - I destroyed their bodies. And they don't have the ability to reach across to our side."

"Ghilan'nain wanted me to return physically," she argues. "She would have compelled me to, without Cole's amulet. Why? Could she have possessed me?"

"No," he says. "Her spirit is far too strong. It would tear apart any mortal body she tried to possess - any of them would. She would need to craft new bodies, specially made."

He looks up in realization. "Bodies made from the essence of someone who had survived crossing the Veil physically."

"Me," she says.

"You," Solas says, "or me, or Thom Rainier, Varric, or Warden Alistair. Or the Champion, had he survived. Ghilan'nain was the foremost expert on living constructs and their creation. With even a little blood from any of us who fell through the Adamant rift, she could create bodies to contain all of the Evanuris. Or even Corypheus' blood, though it would have caused corruption in anything she used it for."

"But if she can't reach across to our world, there's no need to worry," Lavellan muses, "because without the Anchor, there's no way for any of us to cross over physically again. Right?"

"Technically true," Solas agrees. "It won't stop her. She'll find another way."

He steps closer to the cell bars, as near to her as he can be without actually reaching through. "Speak with the Exalted Council," he says. "Ask them to reconsider my sentence. If the Evanuris are awake, I can put them back to sleep before they do any damage. There's still time to fix this."

"Like you were planning to fix the rest of it?" Lavellan argues. "You create the Veil, and destroy the world. Then you try to tear it back down, to fix your first mistake, and wake the very people who you imprisoned in the first place. What will sealing them cost you this time?"

She steps back, fist clenched. "No. I said I wouldn't influence your sentencing, and I won't," she says angrily. "They've decided your guilt. They can execute you if they want. And if not, you can rot in here for all I care."

She turns away. "I'll fix it myself," she says. "Without your help."

The dungeon guards look just as bemused upon her abrupt exit as they had when she barged in. She assumes the only reason they don't say anything is that she _is_ still the Inquisitor, after all.

Dorian and Vivienne corner her before she even makes it to Cassandra's office to report, and so she brings them along and sends for Leliana and Cullen as well, just to avoid having to repeat the story more than once.

"And you're certain it was actually Ghilan'nain, and not another spirit masquerading as her?" Leliana asks.

"No," Lavellan says. "Are we willing to risk it?"

No one answers.

"I suppose this means you're not resigning, then," Cullen says eventually.

Lavellan sighs glumly. "I suppose not," she agrees.

"I'll speak with the Council," Cassandra says, "but without concrete evidence, I doubt they'll agree to a stay of execution."

"I don't want them to," Lavellan says firmly. "Even if Solas could put the Evanuris back to sleep without repercussion - I don't trust him to, not without trying to escape or further his own agenda."

"Dagna has been working on a portable version of the wards that exist in the Grand Cathedral's dungeon," Cullen says. "A type of collar, that would prevent a mage from accessing the Fade, while still allowing for mobility. With her help, we could use Solas' knowledge without actually allowing him any power."

"If it's a matter of preventing his magic, isn't that why the Rite of Tranquility was invented?" Leliana points out.

Cullen flinches visibly. "No," he says.

"Absolutely not," Dorian agrees, looking almost ill at the thought.

"It _was_ considered, in the Council," Cassandra says reluctantly. "They decided against it, and I agreed. It's not a punishment that the Chantry will be using, even in extreme cases. And in any case, we don't even know if it would work on a mage of Solas' abilities."

"Death may even be a kindness, in comparison," Vivienne says delicately.

"If we are to make our pleas to the Council, it will have to be soon," Leliana says. "The execution is scheduled at seven bells, and it's nearly five."

"I said _no_ ," Lavellan yells, her temper getting the better of her for the second time in so many hours.

Her friends all look at her askance.

She takes a deep breath and composes herself. "When we first learned the truth about who Solas was, I was the first to step up and try to redeem him, despite knowing what he intended to do. When it became apparent that he _would_ , in fact, do it, I was the one who said we could stop him. And I was wrong.

"His armies laid waste to Frostback Basin, looking for the source of the Hakkonites' power. You all remember Stone-Bear Hold? It was _decimated_ because I failed." Her voice trembles, but she goes on anyway. "Shall we discuss Ferelden? The alienage purged, because the Ferelden nobility were so afraid of Solas' spies? Or the assassinations his agents carried out in retaliation?

"We _all_ agreed that Solas, or Fen'harel, or _whatever_ you want to call him, had to die. We stood in this very cathedral and took a vote, and we were unanimous. I loved him, but I wasn't the only one to befriend him, even respect him - and _every single one_ of us agreed to march on Skyhold, and to kill him. We recruited entire nations to aid us."

Lavellan swallows hard. "And when it came down to it, when I had my knife at his throat, I couldn't do it. Couldn't make that call, even after - after everything. So I brought him back here, to stand trial." She points at Cassandra. "The Exalted Council decided he's too dangerous to live. Can you blame them? 

"So _no,_ I'm not going to try to talk them out of it, no matter what ridiculous magical _bullshit_ is around the corner," she finishes adamantly. "Whatever it is, we will handle it. Without Solas. I'm done. And so should we all be."

The silence that falls over the room in the wake of her speech is a profoundly uncomfortable one. She can tell Leliana wants to argue with her, but for once the former spymaster lets her have the last word.

Lavellan storms out of the office without so much as a 'by-your-leave.' 

She's expecting Dorian or Cassandra to come after her, but to her surprise it's neither of them who follows.

"Inquisitor," Vivienne calls.

Lavellan ignores her, intent on getting back to her own quarters and having a good cry.

" _Athima Seranna Lavellan, you stop and listen to me this instant!_ " Vivienne thunders, and Lavellan freezes in her tracks at the use of her full name. Several passersby recoil, and a few even scurry in the opposite direction.

It's easy to understand why most people refer to Vivienne as the Iron Lady.

"Madame de Fer," she says, recovering.

Vivienne draws her into a nearby alcove. "I know you're hurting, my dear," she says quietly, "and none of us begrudge you that. This business with the Evanuris not withstanding, it would be perfectly reasonable for you to want to lock yourself away for days. Don't think it hasn't occurred to even one of your friends - and we _are_ your friends, Inquisitor - that you haven't had time to properly mourn what you had with Solas, or grieve your broken heart."

Lavellan doesn't answer. If she opens her mouth, she isn't sure she could keep from crying.

"But I'm going to ask one more favor of you," Vivienne says, "not as your friend, or as Grand Enchanter, but as someone who knows exactly what it feels like to lose the love of their life." She takes Lavellan's hand between her own, obviously thinking of Duke Bastien. "Even if you don't attend Solas' execution - and I wouldn't blame you, they're dreadful things - I _beg_ you to at least see him, before then, and give yourself a chance to say goodbye. I know you're angry, and hurt, and you have every reason to be. But if you can find it within yourself to put that aside, even for a moment, you should."

Vivienne touches the side of Lavellan's face with unbearably gentle fingers. "You'll regret it, if you don't," she says. "At least consider it. Will you promise me that?"

Lavellan still doesn't trust herself to reply, but she nods.

-

By the time Lavellan finally makes up her mind to go see Solas, his cell is empty. The guards explain to her that he's been moved to a temporary holding room nearer to the gallows, and her traitorous feet carry her there before she's worked out anything to say.

A strict set of religious laws prevents the execution of criminals within a certain radius of the Sunburst Throne - something about even legally permissible killings being a corrupting influence on the Divine - but there's a permanent gallows set up at the exact distance allowed. Solas' execution won't be a public one, like Cyril Mornay's was. Though his misdeeds as Fen'harel had been known to the upper echelons of Orlesian government, the common folk had never been made aware of the true nature of the threat. Empress Celene had reasoned that it simply wasn't feasible to publicly announce another war so quickly on the tail end of Gaspard's demise.

For that reason, the Grand Cathedral square is closed to the public today, so the square surrounding the gallows is largely deserted, with only a few templars and guards lingering to keep watch. The wards here are just as strong as the dungeon, and there are no fewer than six guards stationed outside the holding room, each bearing the heraldry of the Inquisition. One unlocks the door for her without being asked. None of them bat an eye when she waves them away. The _click_ of the door closing behind her is unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent room. 

Solas looks worse now than he did when she first went to visit him - only three days ago, though it feels like an eternity. The dark circles under his eyes stand out lividly against his pale, drawn complexion. His wrist are shackled together in front of him, and there's a faint shadow of a bruise forming along the left side of his jaw, as if someone has recently punched him across the face. Exhaustion seems etched in every line of his expression; he looks as worn as she feels.

Lavellan hates that the tiniest part of her still wants to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows, brush her thumb over the high line of his cheekbone.

 _You don't want to love him because you don't think you should,_ Cole had said, _but you can't stop, and it hurts._

Solas, to his credit, lets her speak first.

"I'm not sure why I'm here," Lavellan admits.

He nods in understanding. "Things have never been simple where you and I are concerned," he says.

"If only," she says wryly. She nods at the bruise on his face. "Who did that to you?"

Solas clears his throat. "Divine Victoria," he admits.

" _Cassandra?_ " she snorts before she can help herself.

"She believed I had done something to trap you in the Fade," he says, "and that was why you wouldn't wake up. I denied it, and I believe she lost her temper."

"That does sound like Cassandra," Lavellan says. 

Cassandra isn't the only one who's been losing her temper, lately.

"Creators," she curses, running her hand over her face. "I - I'm still so _angry_ with you, and I can't -"

She swallows. Tries again.

 _Honesty,_ she reminds herself.

"I keep thinking that hating you will cancel out the rest," she grits out finally, "but somehow I still - I still _love_ you, and it's infuriating, that after all you've done I still can't let it go."

"Ir abelas, vhenan," he says, reaching for her, but she slaps his hands away.

"Don't," she says, "you're _not_ sorry - that's the problem, you've never been sorry for any of it. You broke me into pieces, and you nearly broke the _world_ , too, and given the chance you'd do it all over again, wouldn't you?"

He doesn't contradict her. "I'm not sorry for what I've done," he says. "I'm sorry that it meant hurting you." He extends his hands once more, slower this time, and she lets him cradle her hand in his own. 

The shackles are just the tiniest bit loose around his too-thin wrists, though his palms are far too wide to slip through; his hands bear none of the telltale red marks that would indicate him trying to escape. His hand is cold, but his fingers brush so gently against hers.

"I wish it could have been different," he says.

Lavellan scowls. "It could have been," she argues. "You could have - just stopped, at any time, you could have -"

"I almost did," he admits. "That night, in Crestwood, when I told you about the vallaslin, I meant to tell you... everything. The truth. All of it."

"Why didn't you?" she asks.

"I was afraid," Solas says. "Afraid of what you meant to me, and afraid of allowing someone to change my mind, or my heart." He threads his fingers through hers. "Afraid that a mortal woman - even one as incredible as yourself - could draw me away from what I thought I must do. I told myself it was in your best interest to leave then, rather than later. But in truth, it was in no one's best interest but my own."

"That's the truest thing you've said in a long time," Lavellan says.

A muscle jumps in Solas' jaw. "I've never lied to you," he says. "Left out parts of the truth, perhaps. But never lied."

"How noble of you," she bites. "I suppose you think that makes it all right, don't you?"

Solas fixes her with a disapproving glare. "Did you come here just to condemn me, then?" he asks. "Or need I remind you I'm about to be executed, at your order?"

"It's not my order," she says. "The Exalted Council decided your fate, and I said I'd respect their decision."

"My apologies," he says derisively, "but I don't see the difference."

Lavellan flinches, and pulls away.

"This was a mistake," she says, and turns to leave.

"Athima," he says, and she rounds on him, eyes blazing.

" _What?_ " she demands. "Are there any melodramatic parting words you'd like? 'No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real?' Or maybe you'd prefer 'I will never forget you -'"

Solas cuts her off by kissing her.

Lavellan keeps yelling at him all the way through it, his bound hands trapped between them, her teeth closing around his bottom lip. Her hand fists in the fabric of his shirt.

Her anger propels them forward; his back collides with the wall behind him. He works his hands up, fingers gentle on either side of her face despite their desperation. She vents her frustration and hurt against his mouth, a furious tide breaking against the shore.

He kisses her until the fight goes out of her, and she sags against his shoulder.

"I hate you," she says, muffled.

He shrugs, arms pressed awkwardly between them. She doesn't bother shifting to give him room. "I deserve that, I suppose."

Lavellan shuts her eyes tightly. "But I love you, too. Aren't those two things supposed to be opposites?"

"I wouldn't know," Solas tells her. He leans his head against hers. "Ar lath ma, vhenan."

"Stop it," she says. "You don't get to -"

"Let's agree," he says, "that I won't tell you how to feel, and you won't tell me how to feel either."

Lavellan's throat feels tight. "Alright," she answers finally.

"I love you," he repeats, then, and before she can answer there's a quick rap on the door.

"It's time, Your Worship," calls one of the guards, a bit apologetically.

Lavellan takes a breath, and steels herself. She steps away from Solas.

"Don't watch," he says quietly. "Please."

She blinks rapidly. "I won't," she promises.

When the guard opens the door, she leaves without making eye contact with any of them, and doesn't look back.

-

Lavellan doesn't watch.

That's a duty for the Divine, and her Right Hand, and the other officials present.

It'll be quick, she knows. Without the spectacle of a public execution, there won't be any drawn-out ceremony for the masses. The guards will escort Solas to the gallows. Cassandra will say a prayer for the Maker's mercy on the departed. Perhaps Empress Celene will even make a somber, if flowery, speech.

She doesn't need to see the rope around his neck, or the trapdoor fall out from under him. She can picture it all too clearly without the visual proof.

She locks herself in her quarters with explicit instructions for the guards to turn away all visitors. She doesn't need Dorian to console her, or Sera to distract her. What she needs is a good long cry, and that's exactly what she proceeds to do.

She cries herself to sleep, and wakes with a pounding headache, curled around a tear-crusted pillow. She forces herself out of bed and into her clothes; no amount of cold water will reduce the puffiness of her eyes, so she gives up and trudges downstairs to her offices on the ground floor. Mercifully, no one speaks to her on the way down. Leliana's not in her own office, and Lavellan doesn't make an effort to find her, though she's usually the first to report in the morning.

A few important-looking letters are waiting for Lavellan at her desk. The first bears the Valmont seal - it's an official letter from Empress Celene, the sort of awkward 'sorry-for-your-loss' letter reserved for 'but-you-were-in-love-with-a-state-criminal' cases.

There's a letter from her sister - yet another invitation to _arlathvhen_ , something Lavellan still hasn't made her mind up about - and one from Varric, which she sets aside to read later. The last is from Cassandra, asking to meet her at her 'earliest convenience.'

Lavellan reluctantly makes her way to the Divine's office, ignoring the templars who give her odd looks as she passes. Knight-Commander Barris is there, no doubt petitioning the Divine for larger lyrium stockpiles again, but Cassandra dismisses him when she sees Lavellan walk in.

"Thank you, Delrin, that will be all," she says, and Barris salutes before leaving.

"Inquisitor," he acknowledges as he leaves, but all Lavellan can manage is a weary nod in reply.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," Cassandra says, not unkindly.

Lavellan holds up the missive. "It said 'at my earliest convenience,'" she says.

"True," her friend says, "but I think we all would have understood if you'd needed a few days to mourn."

"I'm fine, Cassandra," Lavellan says.

"You don't look fine," Cassandra tells her, in typical blunt Cassandra fashion. "You look like shit."

Lavellan rolls her eyes, and sighs. "I feel like shit," she admits. "Does it matter? There's work to be done. What do you need?"

Cassandra goes to a cabinet behind her desk and opens its magical seal with a touch; she withdraws a paper-wrapped box no larger than a loaf of bread.

"Solas' personal effects," she says quietly. "Ordinarily they'd be given to his next of kin, but I thought in this case you were the only person who qualified."

Lavellan takes the box. It's very light, clearly not very full. She supposes he couldn't have had much on him when they arrested him in Skyhold. 

She isn't sure she really wants to open it, but she knows Cassandra means it as a gesture of compassion. "There's more," Cassandra tells her, "but it's rather heavy. His armor, I believe. I'll have it delivered to your quarters, if you like."

"Thank you," Lavellan says.

"Leliana is assembling a small team to investigate these Evanuris," Cassandra says.

That sounds an awful lot like the start of an assignment, which is exactly what Lavellan needs to take her mind off things. "Details?" she asks.

"Honestly, I don't know much," Cassandra confesses. "She hasn't told me much. I wouldn't put it past her to tell me as little information as possible, just in case the entire affair turns out to be disastrous."

"Sounds like Leliana," Lavellan agrees. "I'll talk to her."

But Leliana's office is still empty when Lavellan goes to find her, and so with nothing better to do, she goes back to her quarters to go through the box.

As she suspected, it's just Solas' old travel pack, and there isn't much in it. A few assorted potions, lyrium and elfroot and the like. A spirit rune, some wisp wrappings, and a few bundles of herbs - the sort of thing Lavellan used to accumulate on their travels. 

There's a dogeared copy of one of Brother Genitivi's books on the Dalish, with handwritten notes cluttering up the margins; Solas had apparently taken offense at some of Genitivi's more outlandish theories. His wolf-jawbone pendant is here as well, its leather cord frayed from constant use. She slips it over her head before she can think about it, tucking it under her shirt so no one will see it.

The last item is a worn, leather-bound journal, its pages filled with more of Solas' spidery, slanted handwriting. Rather than a diary, it seems more like a haphazard collection of notes, sketches, equations and memos, as if Solas had jotted down things he'd feared he'd forget later.

Lavellan loses track of time turning through the pages, feeling as if she's stumbled upon a piece of Solas she hadn't known. A few pages are dedicated to theorizations on why Dorian and Alexius' time magic hadn't worked, and what might solve it; they're followed by some complicated, scratched-out mathematical formulas that end with Solas simply writing 'WRONG' in bold, block letters. There's a sketch of one of the keyshards from the Forbidden Oasis, surrounded by notes on Tranquil and their disconnect from the Fade.

One page is nothing but an incredibly-detailed portrait of her own face, and she has to close the journal before she cries all over it.

She falls asleep reading, and is awakened harshly by a hand over her mouth.

She's got a dagger to her attacker's throat before she realizes it's Leliana.

"What are you doing?" she hisses.

Leliana shushes her. "Get dressed," she whispers. "There's been an emergency. Pack for a long journey, as quickly as you can."

Lavellan knows better than to question the former spymaster of the Inquisition, especially when she has _that_ look on her face. It's after midnight, by the look of things outside, and she stifles a yawn as she dresses and collects her gear.

When she goes for her door, Leliana shakes her head. "Too many guards in the halls," she says, and points at the window.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Lavellan grumbles, and Leliana gestures for her to shut up.

Lavellan follows her out the window and over the balcony, both of them moving over railings and shingled roofs with the silence of long practice. Leliana leads her towards the limits of Val Royeaux, doesn't speak again until they're safely on the ground and well clear of the Grand Cathedral.

"I need you for an assignment," she says finally, "and no one else can know. Not even Cassandra. Do you understand?"

"Of course," Lavellan answers. "Where am I going?"

"Arlathan Forest," Leliana tells her. "Three days ago, an agent of mine failed to report from there. I had people look into it, and they're saying there's been elevated demon activity that might point to a tear in the Veil."

"The Evanuris?" Lavellan asks, alarmed.

Leliana shakes her head. "We don't know. I need you to investigate for me."

"Who can I tell?"

"No one outside your team," Leliana says, "which I've already picked." She hesitates. "I will understand if you're... less than pleased, with the people I've chosen. I must ask you to trust me. And know that no one else was involved."

Lavellan has a very, very bad feeling about this, but doesn't get the chance to ask.

Leliana has brought her to a private stable outside Val Royeaux. Lavellan's Dalish All-bred, the horse she rides when Fuzzykins isn't feasible, is tied up next to Cullen's charger, and Cullen himself is there with Dorian and Sera.

"Why would I be unhappy with..." Lavellan starts, and then sees.

"Please don't shout," Leliana begs.

Solas.

Solas is here.

At least, she's reasonably sure it's Solas, and not a demon masquerading. She doubts her friends would have let that sllp by.

"You're not dead," she says, rather intelligently.

"I was surprised as well," he tells her, and yes, that's definitely Solas, with his rumbling baritone voice and the tiny scar in his forehead and - is that _rope-burn_ , around his neck?

"How?" she demands. "You couldn't have possibly faked - in front of the _Empress_ -"

"We didn't," Cullen says.

"Technically, he _was_ dead," Dorian says. "For about six minutes, actually. Fortunately, the Right Hand of the Divine is on rather good terms with an incredibly powerful necromancer." He waggles his fingers at her. "No blood magic required, as long as you know what you're doing."

"You knew about this," Lavellan says sharply. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I'm sorry," Leliana tells her. "It was cruel, I know, but I needed your reaction to be genuine. It's imperative that the whole of Orlais believes our friend dead, you see. As long as it's known he's alive, he'll be hunted, and we need him." She holds up a hand to forestall Lavellan's retort. "We _need_ him, Inquisitor, and you know it. No one in Thedas has the kind of experience he does, not where the Evanuris are concerned."

"So we're just trusting him unconditionally, now?" Lavellan points out, ignoring Solas' grimace. 

Sera snorts. "Not even."

"Of course not," Leliana says coolly.

"I think you'll find they've taken every precaution," Solas says dryly, and displays his wrists, which each bear a cuff made of what appears to be silverite.

"Dagna was wise enough to not ask why we needed portable versions of the Grand Cathedral's wards," Cullen says, "and Solas agreed - grudgingly, but he agreed - to allow me to take a small amount of blood for a phylactery. He won't be running any time soon," he says, fixing Solas with a glower.

"Who else knows?" Lavellan demands.

"No one," Leliana says. "Not even Cassandra. If this comes back to her, it will have been my idea, and my order. You understand why this has to be an absolute secret."

"We didn't want to lie to you, amica," Dorian says. "None of us could bear to face you, yesterday."

Lavellan can't decide if she wants to punch them all in their smug faces or wrap her arms around Solas and never let go again. Anger wins out, in the end. She looks at Sera. "You can't possibly be okay with this," she says.

"'Course not," Sera says, sticking her tongue out. "I'm hoping this goes bad, and I get to stick him full of arrows. Serve him right."

"And this tear in the Veil?" Lavellan asks. "Did you make that up, too?"

"If only," Leliana says. "And if it were only the possibility of a tear, it would be one thing, but..." She looks at Solas.

He nods grimly. "If the Evanuris were to emerge from the Fade, it would happen there," he says. "The importance of the matter cannot be overstated."

Lavellan takes a deep breath, allowing herself a moment to process.

Solas is alive. That on its own is - impossible. Unthinkable. That her friends _actively_ conspired to keep her in the dark is just as unbelievable. And on top of everything else, the Evanuris.

"Fine," she says eventually. " _Fine._ " She keeps her voice level, though she wants to go back to the screaming, tantrum-throwing child she's felt like for the last few days. "I'll go."

"And with a minimum of complaining, I'm sure," Dorian says cheerfully.

She jabs a finger in his direction. "You don't get to tell me not to complain, Mister I-Don't-Tell-My-Best-Friend-Anything. I _will_ be sulking for _at least_ the first day of our journey, and not _one_ of you gets to say anything about it. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Dorian says. Sera gives her customary two-finger salute.

"Is she always like this on missions?" Cullen asks under his breath.

Lavellan glares at him. "That goes for you as well," she orders.

Cullen holds his hands up. "Understood," he says. "Inquisitor."

"Oh," Leliana says. "That reminds me, none of you can call her that, not anymore. This undertaking isn't officially sanctioned by the Inquisition. Besides," she continues, a little wickedly, "the Inquisitor's retired, now."

Lavellan scowls.

"And of course, you can't call her Lavellan, either," Leliana says. "Perhaps it's time you all learned her actual first name?"

Lavellan groans.

"Cheer up, Athima," Dorian says, and smirks. "I'm sure this is going to be _so_ much fun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me in Solavellan hell! I'm on [Tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com/).
> 
> This is the last chapter of Scars Beyond Counting, but the Sorrow No More 'verse is far from over. Keep an eye out for more fics in the 'verse, and not just from Lavellan's POV!


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